Monday 13 February 2012 07.51 EST
First published on Monday 13 February 2012 07.51 EST

Of all the performances posted on social networks on Sunday in tribute to Whitney Houston, there was one curious absence. Despite being Houston's most successful single, selling more than 15m copies – a number that seems almost inconceivable today – her cover of Dolly Parton's I Will Always Love You seemed to be an elephant in the room; an enormous, lumbering balladosaurus that was less representative of Houston than either her 80s disco incarnation or her late-90s comeback.

For me, it was the first time in my life that music left me awestruck. I sat open-mouthed in front of the TV, rendered speechless by its sheer force. Too young to understand the emotions involved, the scale of the song convinced me of their importance. I knew something was at stake here owing to Houston's "rigorously achieved, utterly regal monumentality", as the critic Mark Sinker put it in his essay on the song.

The vast power Sinker describes is at the core of Houston's finest moments. Her vocal gifts won her elevated status, and her imperious temperament kept her there. It's ironic she was twinned so often with fellow virtuoso Mariah Carey; though they shared rare talents, their sensibilities could not have been more different. By turns giddy and vulnerable, Carey delighted in what she could make her voice do, as excitable as a tween – not for nothing does she repeatedly call herself "eternally 12". When she endured a nervous breakdown, she rebounded by embracing her own ridiculousness; when her voice began to lose its range, she compensated with humour and sheer character.

Houston, on the other hand, always traded on the power of perfection; using her awe-inspiring capabilities to draw emotional strength and rise above difficulty. She used her virtuosity carefully and deliberately; as singer Diamanda Galás has argued: "Some people … can't hear anything but technique, so they think: "Oh, it's about virtuoso singing." Are they mad? Why do they think a person would be a virtuoso? So she can tell the story properly. Why else?"

Houston's reaction to being wronged is not to crumble or break, but to deliver dismissals and ultimatums. "If you still need her, then be on your way," she sings on My Name Is Not Susan. On I Have Nothing, she appears prostrate, but there's nothing vulnerable about the challenges she delivers from on high: "Take me for what I am," "Stay in my arms if you dare." Even at her most carefree, as on How Will I Know, the song still demands an answer.

The importance Houston placed on being strong could lead to some wonderfully nuanced performances (as well as providing a valuable life lesson). Songs delivered from the perspective of the Other Woman are always fertile territory for shades of grey – see also Millie Jackson's (If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don't Want to Be Right, Aaliyah's I Can Be and Sunny Sweeney's Amy – and Houston's breakthrough hit, Saving All My Love for You, is no different. The focus of the song isn't on her lover, but herself: her performance is flinty and deliberate as she makes her agency in the relationship clear, and the occasional flash of repressed fury seems directed at herself for being the type of person who would allow herself to wind up in such an untenable position.

When the boot was on the other foot, Houston channelled her efforts into maintaining dignity. She is marvellously measured on It's Not Right But It's Okay, using the sparse beat to bring out the curl of her lip at the end of each line in the first, accusatory verse; but it's her ad libs towards the song's close that indicate the implacable triumph of her will. "I'm gon' be alright! I'm gon' be okay!" she snaps, as though the more fiercely she is, the more her emotions will bend to her command. No wonder she was such brilliant source material for houseremixes over the years: few could play the outraged diva as fearsomely as Whitney, few even try.

Maybe Houston's show of strength is what made her downfall so uncomfortable. Her declaration 27 years ago that "they can't take away my dignity" has been seized by the usual vultures who gather around celebrity deaths. What they don't understand is, for all the mess that Houston's life descended into and its tragic, unnecessary end, that line is as true now as it was then: the strength she delivered with such force remains. On record, she is as unbreakable and immovable as ever.